A Walk Across the Sun (39 page)

She awoke to the sound of Uncle-ji's voice and the feeling of Shyam's hand shaking her arm. “Sita, wake up,” Uncle-ji was saying.

She opened her eyes and saw that they were on the outskirts of Paris. They passed a sign indicating that the airport was two kilometers away. She focused on Uncle-ji.

“We are going to New York,” he said, looking nervous. “You are to behave like our daughter until we reach America. It is very important that you follow our instructions. If you do not, there will be consequences.”

He handed her a passport. The picture was identical to the passport Navin had purchased, but her name was now Sundari Raman and she was a naturalized French citizen.

“We are on holiday,” Uncle-ji told her. “You must not talk to strangers. Speak only to us and use Hindi. We will do all of the talking.”

Sita received the news of their destination with despair. She had left Asia for Europe believing that someday she would find a way to return to her sister in Bombay. It was a dream, yes, but it didn't seem like a fantasy. Now she was about to leave Europe for North America. The United States and India were on opposite sides of the globe. How would she ever find her way back across ten thousand miles?

Hot tears drenched her cheeks, and she wiped them away. She tried to think of a way out but saw none. Vasily and Dmitri had proven themselves to be both powerful and ruthless. They controlled the destinies of six young women and had procured a full suite of passports in a matter of days. If she crossed them again, they would do more to her than leave her with a bloody scalp.

Dmitri dropped them off at Terminal 2A at Charles de Gaulle. He placed their luggage on the curb and knelt in front of Sita.

“You have been much trouble to us,” he said quietly. “You must do everything they say from now on. If you do not, our associates in New York will make you feel pain. Is this clear?”

She nodded.

“Good,” he said, touching her hair to reinforce the threat. With that, he climbed into the Mercedes and sped away.

Aunti-ji gave Sita the heaviest of the suitcases, and Uncle-ji led the way into the terminal. They checked in at the ticket counter and headed toward the security checkpoint. The French security officials eyed the four of them closely, but Sita made no attempt to speak to them.

They cleared security and took a seat in the waiting area. At noon, their flight was called for boarding. When they reached the boarding kiosk, Uncle-ji handed their passports to the agent, and Aunti-ji patted Sita's head for effect. The agent smiled at Shyam and then at Sita.

“Bon voyage,”
she said and returned the stubs to Uncle-ji.

They took their seats in the middle of the large aircraft. Aunti-ji fussed about the seat assignment and the lack of personal space. Uncle-ji rolled his eyes and chatted quietly with Shyam. Sita looked out a nearby window and ignored them. She watched a plane take off in the distance and tried to picture every feature of her sister's face. Her large eyes and thick eyelashes. Her dimples and full lips. Her almond skin and shimmery hair. Each piece of her sister was beloved. Each would be forever missed.

As the plane backed away from the gate and lumbered toward the runway, Sita made a vow to God and to herself. She would remember her sister. She would remember the person she was and the India they knew before the madness. The world could take their freedom; it could steal their innocence; it could destroy their family and sweep them away in currents beyond their understanding. But it could not deprive them of memory. Only time had that power, and Sita would resist it at all cost.

The past was all she had left.

The flight from Paris touched down at Newark Liberty International Airport late in the afternoon. Apart from a merciful three-hour nap, Aunti-ji had spent the entire flight complaining. She moved constantly, shifting her weight back and forth and bumping Uncle-ji and Sita with her arms. Nearby passengers needled her with their eyes, but none had the gumption to tell her to shut up. None except Uncle-ji. Even his pleas, however, fell on deaf ears. Aunti-ji seemed intent on sharing her misery with everyone in earshot. When at last the plane landed, ten rows of passengers breathed a sigh of relief.

Her tirade continued as they walked to the customs arrival area. Sita glanced at the American immigration officials and remembered Dmitri's words. He was now on the other side of the Atlantic, but he had associates in New York. She couldn't risk telling her story to the police.

They waited in the customs area for nearly twenty minutes before being directed to a booth occupied by a Hispanic immigration officer.

The officer inspected their passports and collected their fingerprints and photographs using the US-VISIT system. He then interrogated Uncle-ji at length about the purpose of their visit. Uncle-ji's story was almost completely true, and he told it with confidence, albeit in broken English.

The officer turned to Aunti-ji and asked her questions about her residency in France, about her place of birth, and about Shyam and Sita, who he called Sundari. Aunti-ji responded with such obsequiousness that the immigration officer looked at her with suspicion. Sensing his concern, Aunti-ji turned to Sita and patted her head.

“Tell how much you want to see New York,” she instructed.

Sita stood frozen, her mind racing for an appropriate response. She spoke the lie that came to her. “Everyone in France talks about New York. I've always wanted to visit.”

“How come you speak such good English?” the officer asked, narrowing his eyes.

The answer came to her effortlessly. “We learn it in school.”

Her explanation seemed to satisfy the officer and he turned his gaze once again to their documents. Uncle-ji stood stiffly with Shyam at his side, and Aunti-ji, for once, had the good sense not to speak. At long last, the officer stamped their passports and waved them through.

“Welcome to America,” he said and turned to the next person in line.

They collected their luggage and sat pensively on a bench beside the bank of hotel telephones. Neither Uncle-ji nor Aunti-ji explained to Sita what they were waiting for. Only Shyam seemed oblivious to the tension of the moment. He stood up and danced a few steps from a Bollywood film, clearly showing off for Sita's benefit.

“Did you see
Kabhi Khushi Kabhie Gham
?” he asked her. “It has Amitabh Bachchan and Shahrukh Khan in it.”

“Cupa rah
ō
!
” Uncle-ji said sternly, telling the boy to be quiet. “This is not India. This is America. You must not make a scene.”

“I'm sorry, Baba,” Shyam said, looking wounded. “I was just trying to cheer up Sita.”

“Sita does not need cheering up. And we do not need to see you dance. Sit down.”

Shyam sat beside Sita and hung his head. When Uncle-ji turned away, Sita brushed Shyam's hand with the back of her fingers.

“It's okay,” she mouthed. “I liked it.”

At this sign of affection, Shyam's sadness seemed to retreat. After a moment, he mustered the nerve to move his hand slightly and touch her in return.

Ten minutes later, a middle-aged Slavic man who looked startlingly like Vasily walked through the sliding glass doors into the terminal. He looked around until he caught sight of them and then walked in their direction. He stared at Sita for long seconds.

“Follow me,” he said brusquely and turned back toward the door, making no attempt to help them with their luggage.

They trailed Vasily's look alike out of the terminal and across a lane of traffic to a white utility van. They climbed inside and Vasily's look alike took his place in the front passenger seat. The driver was a large man with hard eyes and days-old stubble on his chin. As soon as all the doors were closed, he moved the van into traffic and took a ramp onto the turnpike.

After a while, they passed through a long tunnel and emerged into the shadow of skyscrapers. Sita was astonished by the concrete jungle of metropolitan New York. Bombay was more crowded, but New York was a city built in the sky. The driver navigated through a traffic snarl until he reached a seedy-looking hotel called the Taj. Vasily's look alike opened the sliding door to the van and Uncle-ji and Aunti-ji piled out and collected their luggage. Sita got out after Shyam, but the Slav blocked her way.

“You come with us,” he said.

Sita stopped cold and glanced at Uncle-ji, fear blossoming within her. Uncle-ji stared intently at a spot on the sidewalk. At once she knew. Another exchange had been made. Chennai, Bombay, Paris, New York. When would it end?

Vasily's look alike took her arm and forced her back into the van.

“Where are you taking me?” she asked.

“No questions,” he commanded, “or I will give you to Igor.”

The driver—Igor—grinned at her maliciously. “Alexi always tell truth,” he said, his guttural voice almost like a growl.

Vasily's look alike—Alexi—talked briefly to Uncle-ji, and the restaurant owner handed him a passport. Shyam began to protest, glancing at Sita with wide eyes.

“Why is she not coming with us?” he asked, his words carrying into the van. He clutched his father's hand. “Please, Baba, don't leave her.”

Uncle-ji looked ashamed, but he made no attempt to reply.

Alexi returned to the van and climbed into the passenger seat. Igor gunned the engine and pulled away from the curb. Sita looked out the rear window and locked eyes with Shyam. The boy waved and his lips moved, but she couldn't hear his words. She watched him fade into the distance, his small body dwarfed by the great towers of the city.

The depth of her sorrow surprised her. She reached into her sari and rubbed Hanuman with her thumb. She tried to pray, tried to believe that the monkey wasn't just a piece of ceramic in her hand, that the real Hanuman was out there somewhere searching for her, but her faith seemed incapable of bearing up the weight of her fear.

She turned around and steadied her breathing. She watched as Igor maneuvered the van back through the jam of tunnel traffic. The late winter sun was setting behind a blanket of low clouds, and the diminishing light cast a pallor over the urban landscape.

They followed the turnpike into Newark and took an exit just past the airport. After a series of turns, Igor pulled the van into the parking lot of a strip mall. Its only distinguishing characteristic was a neon-lit building that sat in the back corner beside a motel. The entrance to the building was flamingo-pink and the sign over the door read PLATINUM VIP.

Igor parked the van near a side door, and Alexi summoned Sita from the back seat. Pulling Tatiana's coat around her, she followed him through the door and down a dimly lit hallway. The walls were dingy with old paint and decorated with cutouts from porn magazines.

Alexi opened the door to a small room. It was furnished with a bed, a sink, a toilet, and a television set. He flipped a switch and a light came on in a garish gold lamp in the corner. The room was windowless and looked neglected. A dusty fan hung from a fixture in the ceiling, its blades unmoving.

“You stay in here,” he said and left her alone, locking the door behind him.